Poetry

Hat Stand

‘What hat shall it be today?’

the woman asks herself as she eyes

up the stand, the helpful monitor beside her

flashing with images of the latest trends.

 

‘Shall it be one that paints me an object, a soulless statue

worth only my measurements? How about the even tempered

diplomat, with no passion of her own, no dreams of her own,

no meaning of her own? Maybe the career minded robot

would like to be displayed?’

 

She lists them all, but none of them match her today.

 

None of them ever matched her, she realises,

and begins to wonder why she has hats at all.

She doesn’t remember buying them.

Were they gifts? Or suggestions?

 

She assesses the weather outside: mild.

 

She decides. She won’t wear one,

to see how it feels to be herself.

Poetry

Things that stay

How do we rate our encounters?

What if we were given a stamp for each positive one,

a scar for each negative,

a freckle for those of no consequence?

 

Could we read each other’s lives that way?

Noting all the joy,

regarding all the hardships.

 

Would people want to be displayed like that?

Raw.

Open for discussion, ridicule,

pity, doubt

 

also

 

compassion,

love, trust

and empathy.

 

In a world where everyone wants to hide

while simultaneously

glued to social media

 

sometimes

 

noticing details of another

can build the strongest bonds.

 

Poetry

Unicorns

Are we just displays,

faces painted on with shimmering gloss

and sparkles in our eyes?

Given tinted glasses so we can’t see the cracks

spreading across our bodies

so we never have the opportunity to repair?

Our personalities never expansive enough

to fill more than a sentence,

a breath between speech,

a second of a cursory glance?

 

Or are we intelligent minds

housed in bodies we can love,

strong, supple and up to any task we try?

Views and motivations

and goals we strive for and achieve every day.

Emotional, yes, but also logical, calculating,

creative and inventive,

deserving of respect not just from the masses,

but ourselves too?

Poetry

Society

Sometimes I’m amazed at how kind complete strangers can be, even if it’s just a simple gesture – stopping to let me cross the road at a busy time.

Occasionally, it makes me forget that just because I can’t always see the shade, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Crash. The day is hazed as it all leaks back to the forefront again. An article about the state of animals transported abroad.

It makes me choke. So much cruelty. So much ignorance. So much death.

Enter news of wars and children killed in a mass of explosions all because grown-ups can’t shake hands.

Tidal waves within me, and I feel powerless and angry.

Yet despite all this, the great hive still buzzes. Even for me, hiding that data in code for the sake of living.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Haste

They called it that when they missed

The  chance

To say goodbye

Business is business, after all

Everything measured in a tiny flask

That swirls its mixture around with

Every stride.

I love you

Going unsaid because the rules say

It must.

 

Poetry

Aftermath

An hourglass drains gently,

The sand filling the gaps in her mind.

Flashes  of  trees,  the tang

Of burnt rubber tyres,

The man in the road,

Arms  outstretched  in a forced

Gesture of  greeting.

Death’s thin, precise blade cutting  deep  into

His chest.

 

 

Poetry

Crepuscular (in response to an interview with Neil Gaiman)

Sometimes, my eyes feel like

swollen pearls

liquefying down my cheeks.

I stumble, blind,

from the doors of famous

enough,

over to the council of too

famous, or famous too.

My voice can fill

but no longer be heard.

I must consider if,

simply,

I am tomorrow’s forgotten things.

 

The interview that inspired this can be found here

Poetry

Beauty Contest

How do you measure

the prettiness of a flower?

Do you look at it from every angle,

taking a ruler to each petal

and then recording the measurements

in order to conclude

perfect symmetry?

Do you lay them

next to others

of the same hue,

matching them with those

that have already won the vote

for overall vibrancy?

Do you gather them into a bunch

for an authority to assess

how well they can be displayed?

Or is it the case

that you do not judge them

at all?

Perhaps you have realised

that in order to fully observe

the beauty in each,

you must first appreciate

their differences.

Poetry

Dead Words

A tower of words merged into brick

waiting to crumble

like the decayed mast of a wrecked ship.

 

The alligators below all circle around

speaking of disaster and sacrifice

while they’re safe on the ground.

 

An annual mania that ignores the dying,

green apologies are spoken;

they don’t realise they’re lying.

 

And then the opening buds of a rose

speak up with new voices

querying the world with new prose.